The Long March Home
by ofhousestark
Summary: Chapter 6: Fasendil convicts Aralyn, Aralyn frees Fasendil. Gaining an audience with the Jarl, the Jagged Crown is presented. "The guy wearing that was pretty unhygienic, I'd wash it first."
1. Chapter 1

**TITLE: The Long March Home**

 **CHARACTERS: Aralyn (OC), Ulfric Stormcloak, Legate Fasendil, Dragonborn (OC).**

 **PAIRING: Aralyn / Ulfric**

 **RATING/THEMES/WARNINGS: T (may change later). Romance, drama, family, adventure. May contain sexual references and/or themes, racial discrimination, violence. Will contain _non-explicit_ sexual content – ergo, everything will be implied and not described, just like in any teen drama. Please keep in mind, however, that the rating may be subject to change later on.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1**

 **Summary:** When she'd turned her back on her people, on the Empire and even on her own brother, Aralyn had thought it was the beginning of a new life. She'd definitely never imagined ending up in a prison cell. "Even old Tiber Septim took for himself an elven wench."

 **A/N:** Aralyn is in her thirties, but please keep in mind that Mer tend to live two (or sometimes even three) times longer than humans; so appearance-wise, thirty-eight years old would be early twenties. In regards to the Civil War, since Ulfric is a main character, events will obviously favour the Stormcloaks, but I will do my best to keep this fic mostly impartial. And now without further ado, chapter one! As always, please leave a review, its great encouragement and always helps to motivate my writing.

* * *

 _ **FASENDIL**_

" _What in Oblivion are_ they _doing here?"_

" _Keep it down, Ara."_

" _Let go of my wrist and answer the question."_

 _Receiving a glare from his younger sister was hardly something to shiver over, but Fasendil let go of her wrist anyway, watching her step closer toward the road with some apprehension. "Aralyn," he tried, changing the subject to something more important – "I will be reassigned to the camp in The Rift. Very soon, in fact, and I want you to come with me. Do you understand?"_

 _She is silent, and it infuriates him, though he lets it boil down. "Aralyn –"_

" _I thought you said this was an Imperial operation," she said without looking back at him._

" _It is." He stood next to her, watching as the carriages rolled past them, down into Helgen's main square._

 _She snorted, before tilting her head toward the group standing behind them. "So why are_ they _here?"_

 _Fasendil glanced back, watching as General Tullius, two of his men and three Thalmor operatives stood there talking, undoubtedly about the impending execution, and he turned to face his sister, taking her by the shoulders. Her beautiful face, filled with defiance and anger, was as much a testament to her Altmer heritage as it was to their sibling relationship – both of them had possessed that same rebellious, headstrong nature that had led to their alignment with the Empire rather than the Thalmor. Somewhere in the midst of relocating due to Fasendil's position in the legion, Aralyn had fallen in love with Skyrim, even more than she had adored their birthplace of Cyrodiil._

 _And yet, he could only watch anxiously as the state of the land seemed to cause Aralyn to become more and more restless by the day, showing the same signs of resentment toward the Imperials that she had shown to the governing force of her own kind._

" _Listen to me," he whispered sternly. "Our time will come, but it is not now."_

" _Not now, when the Dominion is weak?" she demanded, her tiny, slender hands wrapping around his forearms in turn, and he knew that for all her strength and solidarity, she was still fragile, still the little sister he had to protect. "Not now, when the treaty helps them more than it helps us? When_ will _the time come, then? When they regain all their strength and crush us for good?"_

"Soon, _" he hissed viciously, losing his patience. "You're being impertinent and reckless, keep your voice down."_

 _It was evident on Aralyn's face that she wasn't shaken by his reprimands like she had used to be when she was younger, and she let go of him, looking at the carriages once more, which had reached the end of their trip. Fasendil stared at her, knowing that despite her disrespectful attitude toward her elder that he resented, she spoke of the same doubts he did. His allegiance to the Empire was largely founded on his hate for the supremacist movement his people had created. Who was he fighting now, when the Thalmor and the Imperials were holding hands like long-time friends?_

 _Standing in front of him, her back turned, in her long pale silk dress robes and the black hair that she'd pinned up and decorated with fancy jewelled chains to speak of her highborn heritage, Fasendil might've thought she was a mere girl of eighteen, not a woman of thirty-eight years. She was not the warrior he was, but she was clever, observant, calculating. Fasendil remembered the many times she'd begged him to let her help with the war efforts, and how he had denied her every time. He had not set up a nice home for her, complete with belongings and a job to keep her happy and occupied, only to let her jump headfirst into a war. Whiterun was safe, and that meant Aralyn would be safe there, too._

" _You and I both know what we are –_ who _we are."_

 _Fasendil frowned at Aralyn. Her voice had finally softened, yet it was full of foreboding._

" _Our people are strong. They are resourceful, ruthless and intelligent. They are long-living. Time isn't on the Empire's side, Fasendil. It's on_ theirs _."_

 _But was she really safe? Was his position as a legate going to mean much when his sister grew to despise everything he fought for?_

" _Where are you going?" Fasendil demanded as Aralyn gathered her skirts to head down toward the town centre._

" _To make sure I know who the protectors of Skyrim are," she said icily. "And whether I'm on the right side or not."_

* * *

 **ARALYN**

Aralyn couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten, slept, or even simply stopped to rest, but despite the shackles around her wrists and the narrow walls trapping her, she was glad to be in a safe, isolated place; to lay her head and even eat a slice of cheese without turning her head or worrying about what might happen to her if she let her guard down in favour of sleeping.

Simple luxuries aside, she could not remember how she had ended up here, and she was more than a little worried about being stuck in a prison cell for reasons she were certain did not exist.

Her layered cream dress were torn, tattered and terrible; the hem long ripped off after she had continuously tripped over it, and her hair was a tangled mess of knots, dirt, and damaged hair pieces, the delicate chains broken and several jewels missing. It wasn't all a huge loss, she thought to herself optimistically. It was one of her simpler garments – she was lucky she hadn't opted to wear the beautiful emerald green gown Fasendil had given her for her birth celebration, a gorgeous item he had imported with great difficulty all the way from their native Cyrodiil.

And, as immediately as the memory had come to her, so did those of Helgen, of their argument, of the dragon attack which had prompted her desperate journey; and the tears began to well in her eyes at the thought of her brother. Her first instinct was to fear he might have – Arkay have mercy – perished in the flames, but she knew her brother better than that. He was strong, smart, and steadfast. As well as he would've saved others, he would've been able to save himself just as easily, and if she were to journey to his new camp in the Rift, she was certain she would find him there.

If she would ever dare face him again after their argument in Helgen, that is. Or after what she planned to do.

The sound of footsteps in the stairwell had Aralyn raising her head, eyes searching for the newcomer. The other prisoners made noises as a guard appeared, most of them throwing angry insults, others begging to be released, or have their complaints heard. Aralyn wasn't sure _what_ she should plea, being utterly unaware of why she'd been captured or thrown into prison in the first place. She did, however, recognise the guard's uniform, and a sudden burst of hope ignited in her. At least she'd made it to the right place.

"Come on, elf," the guard said rather condescendingly, and Aralyn held back the long train of words she wanted to retort with – she was a prisoner in dirt and rags, not a respectable Altmer in silks, and her haughty comments would likely not impress the guard, so she obediently left the cell in silence. Another guard had come into the prison block, seemingly waiting for her, too.

The other prisoners began to jeer at her, whether they had noticed the colour of her skin, the point of her ears, or the telltale angles of her face; they held nothing back as they cursed her and told her in less than friendly terms to return to where she'd come from – but this was nothing new, and neither was it something that she had not steeled her ears against long time ago. Even in Whiterun, where the townspeople respected her and even befriended her, there were the odd few men who remained stuck in their ways, insisting that her heritage defined her intentions, and taking any chance to try to make her feel unwelcome. It wasn't as if a few men trapped behind bars with their wrists shackled together were going to get anywhere near affecting her feelings.

"Get moving," the second guard ordered, giving her a push, and she almost tripped up the steps.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked once she'd adjusted her pace to satisfy the guard's demand, but she received no clue.

"Shut up and keep walking, they won't wait forever."

" _Who_ won't?"

"You'll see soon enough."

"I swear," she grit out as she stumbled for the third time; "if you shove me one more time I'll –"

One of the guards swung the door open while the other gave her one final push, sending her stumbling into a new room. A _large_ room – a _hall_. More specifically, a palace hall.

The entire hall was made of cold gray stone, the floors decorated in vibrant blue and the ceiling lined with banners of the same colour, a long dining table stretching down the centre with four lit candelabras hanging directly above it, and a fierce profile of some sort of bird of prey protruded from each of the wall columns standing all around the hall.

And at the very end of this grand hall, flanked by blue banners bearing the sigil of a bear and seated upon a large throne, was the Jarl of Windhelm himself. Ulfric Stormcloak.

"Make tracks, elf," the guard behind her hissed, and the threat of another shove in his tone was enough to have Aralyn walking. The guards had her arms in tight grip – as if she would actually try to run? – but she paid the restriction no mind, her eyes still wide and trained upon the man on the throne, staring at her with the same level of regard as the men at her sides did. Probably less, she noted as she got closer.

Now this was a big turn of events. When she'd begun travelling toward Eastmarch, her intention had been to speak to a soldier, maybe even a commander or best case scenario, the general; never had she considered gaining an audience with the jarl himself, the leader of the rebellion she had sought to join. The guards forced her to kneel, and she did so with all the grace she could muster, and tried to blow a wisp of black hair out of her face as she looked up at the stern figure seated a mere five or six steps away from her.

Aralyn knew she was smart. She was a gifted conversationalist, a sly manipulator, and had a knack for being convincing, which was what she had hoped her recruitment into the Stormcloaks would entail. But now, finding herself in a situation she hadn't foreseen even before being thrown into a dungeon, Aralyn realised she needed a moment to gather herself before making a case.

"State your name."

Aralyn looked to the right – the man who had spoken was dressed in good clothing, a hat atop his head and an inked pen in his hand, ready to write. The jarl's steward, she figured.

"Lost your tongue have you, elf?" a low, gruff voice demanded, and this time the owner of the voice stood at the left of the throne, clad in strong armor and a chunky bear pelt – as if he didn't already look like a bear himself – scowling at her like she had just burned down the entire city.

"Galmar." It was a reprimand, and it came from Ulfric Stormcloak himself, though his stare never departed from her. "Answer Jorleif's question, prisoner."

"Name, please," the steward – Jorleif – repeated. He seemed like a kindly man, or at least kinder than the men beside him.

"Aralyn," she finally replied. Her voice came steady and confident, her gaze unwavering. Nords could be stubborn, but they weren't impossible to get through to. These three wouldn't be that difficult a nut to crack – given they realised that they had wrongly imprisoned her.

"And what is your reason for your presence in Windhelm, Aralyn?" Jorleif inquired, and Aralyn turned her calm gaze upon him, speaking carefully – clearly the issue here was trust, and she certainly didn't have to lie about her trustworthiness.

"I seek to pledge my allegiance."

"To whom?"

"Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak," she responded, her tone even and her words slow. "And his rebellion against the Empire."

The guards by her sides snorted, and joining in was the bear beside Ulfric named Galmar, who chortled like it was the funniest thing he'd heard in years (he also sounded much like he hadn't laughed at a single thing in years).

"Surely you cannot be serious," Jorleif asked, gentle and kind but clearly not believing her any more than the guards and the bear-man.

"I would not jest about such a thing," Aralyn replied, though she heard the unintentional snap in her voice. "I despise the Dominion, and the Empire now receives the same measure of loathing since they have sought to lay with the Thalmor."

"You are an Altmer yourself," Ulfric's low voice reverberated, very nearly interrupting her. "Why should you have cause to despise an alliance made by your own kind, for the _benefit_ of your own kind."

The man's face was lined with wrinkles that came with age, but they did not dare take away from the handsomeness of his features. The severe angles of his nose, cheeks and jaw accentuated his stern expression, thick locks of dark blonde hair hung around his face, two braids woven through it, and his eyes were hard and unrelenting, rich in colour like sapphires; deep yet piercing, full of suspicion and thoughtful scrutiny. Aralyn met them without pause, blue against gold; resolute against the clear lack of trust in his stare.

"I was born in Cyrodiil," she answered. "My parents were travelling merchants. I moved to Skyrim several years ago, and I have come to love it more than Cyrodiil, more than the Summerset Isles that I have never known – nor that do I wish to know. My support has always been with the Empire until now, but if the Empire will not oppose the Thalmor, I chose to find the people who would, and my search ends here, if you would care to cease this unfounded mistrust of my intentions."

"Unfounded mistrust, is it?" Ulfric repeated, which Aralyn responded to with a slight frown and a narrowed gaze. "This is not the first time we cross paths, Altmer. Several of my men recognised you from Helgen, on the day we were to be executed; in the same garb you currently wear, no less."

Realisation slowly dawned on Aralyn, and apprehension followed quick on its tail. _Fasendil_.

"They stated that they had seen you speaking closely with an Altmer legate, not far from where the bastard Tullius himself stood with several of his Thalmor friends." Ulfric stood from his throne, and just as she had been when she had first been dragged into the hall, Aralyn found herself lost for words. "For someone who claims such powerful distaste for the Thalmor and the Empire, it seems you did not possess any aversion to rubbing shoulders with them."

"That was my _brother_ ," Aralyn argued, struggling against her binds. "I already told you – I supported the Empire for a long time along with my brother, until I decided I would no longer stand by an Empire who let Thalmor reign in the lands! He did not agree with me, and so we went our separate ways."

"Filthy elven lies," Galmar spat.

"You made up your mind rather swiftly," Ulfric noted, his stare having changed into a glare, judgment clouding the blue of his eyes. "I'm sure I'm not alone in finding that suspicious."

"The events of Helgen were exactly what prompted me to make a decision I had long been contemplating!" Aralyn snapped. "What was I to do? Make a public declaration?"

"I have no suggestions for what you should've done," Ulfric replied with deathly calm. "I only know what I should do when faced with an Imperial spy in my city."

"Pardon _me?_ "

The guards dragged Aralyn up onto her feet as she stared at the jarl in shock. _A spy? You have got to be kidding me._

"Maybe you should accept her pledge, Ulfric," Galmar suggested, his voice full of mockery. "Even old Tiber Septim himself took for himself an elven wench."

Aralyn threw Galmar a dark glare, but she had no room to spit her venom as she was dragged away back through the stairwells leading to the prison block, thrown back into her cell and locked up with nothing more than a clean set of ugly brown rags and the taunts and insults of the prisoners to make her realise that coming to Windhelm had probably been a huge mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

 **Summary:** In the midst of readying his men for what may or may not be a battle, Fasendil finds himself confronted by Stormcloak soldiers accusing him of sending his sister to Windhelm in attempted espionage. "Does mother know you wear her drapes?"

 **A/N:** A lot of the activities of the Imperials and Stormcloaks until the beginning of the actual questline events will be inventions, assumptions, and other such fictional twaddlings. Basically, fillers – but I won't write more than what will become boring, I promise.

There will also be little bits of history about Fasendil too, in this chapter and future ones to come!

[ _Insert the usual begging for reviews here._ ]

* * *

 **FASENDIL**

If Fasendil had thought his job to be relentless before, the escape of the Stormcloaks had only made things that much more hectic. He had been assigned to The Rift as planned, but he was immediately tasked with organising his men and preparing for the very high possibility that Ulfric Stormcloak would rally his men and strike at anytime, anywhere. It didn't matter that Fasendil had already mentioned the futility of preparing the Rift for such an attack – Riften was already held by the Stormcloaks, after all. But he'd been ordered to be ready in case they would be required as reinforcements elsewhere... a task the high elf had _thought_ would be a piece of cake.

Amidst what was, at this point, a lot of hoopla over nothing, Fasendil had plenty of time to think, worry and panic over Aralyn. Argument and conflict aside, since moving to Skyrim it had always been just the two of them, looking out for each other in a place that couldn't help but immediately suspect them as the ever-hated Thalmor.

Even if she had escaped Helgen, where had she gone, and how could he be sure she had made it somewhere safe? He had already been concerned enough with her safety that he'd brought her to Falkreath with him, and then planned to eventually take her to the Rift as well. Now she was unarmed, armour-less, and most of all she was alone – an Altmer female travelling through the mountains of Skyrim on her own. How could he manage his legion properly while under stress about his sister's survival, whereabouts and wellbeing? He should've had her married off when he had the chance, to a decent man with an honest living and enough good looks that his snobby sister wouldn't complain.

He rubbed his nose, stifling a smile at the thought. As haughty and insufferably superior as Aralyn could act, her kindness and selflessness transcended it by miles, sometimes to his surprise, despite the fact that he had been with her for almost every day of her life. Fasendil had never thought of anywhere as being his home – not the Summerset Isles, not his place of birth Cyrodiil, and not Skyrim, but Aralyn had become fond of the latter immediately. She was always the first to step up and assist their neighbours, never in too much of a rush to stop to talk to the townspeople, and even when she was insulted, she never ever said a bad thing to anyone (well, not to their face, at least).

He remembered once when she'd attempted to set him up with a pretty woman two houses down, a Nord with big green eyes and long blonde hair and a fragility about her that contradicted the typical visual qualities of her kinsmen. Vyrra was too delicate, too soft, too much a lady to yoke her to himself; a soldier who would spend most of his time away from any family he would attempt to have. And despite how much she clearly liked him and how taken he was with her, the relationship had never been allowed to progress any further than a few dates and flirting here and there, before it was severed completely once Fasendil had become a legate, able only to visit Whiterun occasionally.

His sister had scolded him for weeks afterward, much to his amusement as well as his regret. But a warrior who would hardly be there for his wife and children, constantly putting his life in danger as well as leaving his family unprotected in his absence – if he hated the thought of that for Aralyn, surely he wouldn't allow the same fate to befall Vyrra – or any other woman – just because he fancied her.

Yet now, he was very much a lone wolf, with no home and no lover, nothing but a passion for the Empire and a protective instinct over his only family whom, ironically, he had also recently lost due to his position.

His expression darkened and he pushed himself off the creaky chair. He could not be thinking of Aralyn right now. She had questioned him, defied him, and denied the Empire they'd both been protected by all this time. Anything that had happened to her was by her own doing, and he could not afford to allow himself to think anything else.

He walked toward the table to review the map laid across it once more, detailing all current Imperial camps as well as the ones soon to be erected; and all known enemy camps, as well. It seemed the Stormcloaks were spreading out and establishing their positions fast, but Fasendil knew they didn't have the numbers to attempt any sort of large-scale attack. Not _yet_ , at least.

"Legate Fasendil," a croaked, elderly voice called to him, and he lifted his head to see who addressed him from the entrance of his tent. "How fares your cause?"

"Lord Hjorn," he replied without much enthusiasm, head bowing once more to examine the map. "It fares adequately. What brings you to our camp this morn?"

Hjorn Iron-Finger was a nobleman of the Rift – aptly named due to his influence in the region and the quality iron weaponry that provided him riches as well as authority. Although he was very much a nosy, obnoxious, over-extravagantly dressed, shrewd old busybody who nobody liked much, he was largely the reason for which they had gained so many new, young and strong recruits to the legion in the Rift recently. Thus, even if respect wasn't an option, it had to be replaced with basic politeness.

"Nothing but loyalty and a bout of curiosity. I hear that Ulfric outsmarted Tullius once again, with a _dragon_ no less."

A dry glance was the first response Fasendil had to give him. "I'm certain that you, my lord, with all your cultured views and high education, would not believe that such a creature would be dictated by a mortal, least of all the Stormcloak usurper."

"Perhaps not, but you must admit it is rather mysterious," Hjorn said with a lazy smile, and Fasendil knew the man simply wanted to toy with him, as he did with anyone he could corner. As much as he was an Imperial supporter, the old fool could also be their biggest critic.

"My job is not to deal in mysteries," the legate replied brusquely. "I deal in facts and serve with steel. The dragon was merely a delay of the inevitable. I advise you not to get too excited, Lord Hjorn."

"I will do my utmost," the old man replied, mirth still ever-present in his tone, "but this I cannot say for the rest of Skyrim."

Fasendil opened his mouth to retort, but before he could, he heard his name being called from outside. Frowning, he excused himself from Hjorn's presence, walking around the table to leave the tent even as the old lord trailed after him. When he met the soldier near the edge of the camp, he found him faced with – of all creatures – two Stormcloak rebels.

"What is the meaning of this," Fasendil demanded with a narrowed gaze, his arms crossed over his chest as the soldier at his side kept his sword drawn. Behind him, Hjorn muttered something about interesting developments.

"We do not come in arms," one of the Stormcloaks said, though his harsh tone said he would have preferred otherwise. "We come bearing a message from Windhelm, from the true High King himself, Ulfric Stormcloak."

Hjorn eagerly jumped into the conversation, emerging from behind Fasendil. "True high king, is it?" he asked in his shrill, scratchy voice. "By whose decree; his own?"

The Stormcloak sneered at the elder, giving his bright, lavish, jewelled robes a disdainful once-over before disregarding him entirely. "Does mother know you wear her drapes?"

"Ulfric has not earned any such title yet," Fasendil spoke, ignoring the petty dialogue between the lord and the Stormcloak before him. "And neither will he ever. What message do you bear?"

"The Jarl would condemn the Imperials for their deceitful activities," the soldier said gruffly, and Fasendil frowned as he continued his rehearsed words. "He states that the attempt at espionage by the Empire, the Thalmor, or both, must result in justice being served upon the apprehended, and a gracious warning be given for similar future offences."

Fasendil stared at the Stormcloak as he fell silent after reciting the message loud and clear. Deceitful activities? Espionage? What on Nirn was the man talking about?

"I have no idea what your jarl believes us to have done," he began slowly, as calm as he could be given the strange and untrue accusations; "but no such _deceitful activities_ have been authorised from this camp, and neither do I believe that of any of our other camps, either – though you are very welcome to visit each and every single one to hear that same truth."

The Stormcloaks looked at one another as if they had a secret, before facing Fasendil, each with an irritatingly smug smirk on their faces. "It was assumed you would deny it," the second Stormcloak said. "But it is futile. The spy herself also denied her crime, but she _did_ identify herself. As your sister."

The words absolutely floored him, and judging by the messengers' faces, he likely displayed most flabbergasted expression he'd ever worn. " _Aralyn?_ "

"Curiouser and curiouser," Hjorn uttered gleefully, rubbing his chin, and Fasendil only _barely_ controlled himself from turning and knocking the man out cold.

"Something of that sort," the second Stormcloak affirmed. "She said she had abandoned the Empire as well as her brother, seeking to join our cause, but the Jarl saw through her lies and she now serves out her punishment. For you, however, we bring only this warning: never again shall you try –"

"Alright, shut up would you."

The soldier looked startled by Fasendil's sharp words, blinking and almost even taking a step back. The legate stepped forward, narrowing the distance between himself and the men, and they both placed their hands upon the hilts of their swords, though their nervous expressions betrayed them.

"That Altmer _is_ indeed my sister," he snarled, voice low and angry. "Or she was, before I knew of this betrayal. But the Imperials do not deal in espionage, nor would I ever send my own sister into your ranks simply to discover your useless secrets. If you would punish her, I could care less." He straightened, lifting his chin, and the Stormcloaks backed up out of his space. "Now," Fasendil ordered, " _get out of my camp._ "

Hardly spending any further time watching as the Stormcloak messengers fled the camp, Fasendil turned with thinly-veiled fury to return to his tent. _Aralyn, you traitor._

Rubbing a rough palm over his face, Fasendil returned to his tent and leaned over the table once more, though his concentration was no longer on the marks pinned to the map and the lines between them.

"So," Hjorn muttered, though his tone made his interest evident, "kin turns against kin, blood turns against blood."

"This is war," the Altmer responded flatly. "We all knew what it might bring."

"The Stormcloaks have imprisoned your sister," the old lord reminded, "have you no concern for her fate?"

"As far as I'm _concerned_ ," Fasendil growled with a sharp glare. "I do not _have_ a sister anymore."

* * *

 **ARALYN**

She couldn't stop shivering, no matter what she tried. Sitting atop the hay pile in her corner of her cell, curled up and rubbing her hands together almost furiously wasn't helping much, and even the pathetic meals they brought her twice a day were placed too far away for her to untangle her limbs and brave the cold floor.

It had only been a few days, but she felt the strain nevertheless. Aralyn was accustomed to a warm, cosy home in Whiterun, a wide range of homemade meals by her personal cook from which to choose, and an endless supply of expensive gowns, robes and accessories to wear according to her every mood and fancy. The meager piece of eidar cheese on the plate at the door, the rags she was currently clothed in, and the cold damp surroundings of her cell was certainly not an unnoticeable change, and definitely not one she adapted to well.

The first two days she had endured well, the hours passing by slowly but hopefully as Aralyn awaited someone to come down into the block any second to pardon her and apologise for their wrongful accusation. The twelve hours of the third day had passed by even slower, and the cold had begun to seep in. She remembered how much Fasendil used to tease her about her intolerance to the cold in contrast to her adoration for Skyrim, reminding her over and over that the Altmer preferred tropical heat to frosty tundra. He was stronger, and his many travels had made him able to adapt to all climates and conditions, much to Aralyn's envy. If it were Fasendil in this cell, he probably wouldn't even sniffle.

Drawing her knees up and bowing her head to press her forehead against them, Aralyn paid gratitude to the fact that the cold at least stopped her tears from falling. Maybe she should've listened to Fasendil. Maybe she'd been too rash to condemn the Empire. Maybe personal conviction wasn't worth being stuck in prison for divines knew how long. Maybe her choices would lead her to be forgotten in here for good.

"Hey you, Thalmor bitch!"

Aralyn rolled her eyes. This wasn't the first time she'd been called by such a title in this place, and she was pretty sure it wouldn't be her last.

"Hey, I'm _talking to you_."

"There is no Thalmor here," she finally snapped, her head merely rolling to one side to face the direction from where the voice came. It was the prisoner in the cell next to hers, and though she couldn't see him, she figured he'd been there when she had first arrived and seen her.

"Fine. Altmer bitch, then." _So much better._ "What you in for?"

"Jarl thinks I'm a Thalmor spy. As does everyone in this place, apparently."

"Blame 'em?"

"...No." She rested her chin in the space between her knees, biting into her dry, cracked lower lip. "I suppose not."

"Want to know what I'm in for?"

"Not particularly," she murmured, "but I wager you're going to tell me anyway."

"Murder." The voice sounded pleased, as if he were proud of himself.

"You don't sound very remorseful."

"I'm not. Found the bastard raping my sister. He probably woulda' killed her too, had I not caught him first. Stabbed him in the face and then tried to run before I got caught. Guards found me, and they didn't believe me, of course."

"You shouldn't have run," Aralyn stated with a frown he couldn't see.

"You think staying put would've convinced them?" She heard the man scoff. "I don't care, though. I'd do it again if it meant Tamare would be safe, like she is now."

Aralyn remained silent, weighing his words in her mind, considering the self-sacrifice he claimed not to regret.

"So, are you, then?"

"Am I what?"

"A Thalmor spy."

"No, I'm not." She sighed, pressing her face against her knees again. "But that doesn't matter, either. I abandoned the Imperials and my own brother for what I thought were the protectors of Skyrim. Now I'm in prison for it."

"Good intentions don't always reap rewards."

"Thanks for the encouragement."

"And sometimes they do. But most of the time you have to content yourself with simply knowing you did the right thing."

"And how do you know it's the right thing?"

"Ask yourself."

She's about to inquire if that was what he had done, if that mindset was how he survived the dark depths of prison after doing nothing but saving his sister; when heavy footsteps and the jingling of keys had her head lifting almost immediately, the words on her lips fading away.

"Enjoying the accommodations, elf?" the guard asked once he was standing at the door of her cell.

Aralyn averted her gaze, cheek rested back atop her knees, ignoring the biting remark. Indeed, the taunts were nothing new – but damn, were they getting irritating.

And then, to her surprise, the guard lifted the keys in his hand, using one to unlock her cell and open the door wide. He didn't look happy about it, which could obviously only be a good thing for Aralyn.

"Get up," he told her, and she didn't need to be told twice. "Come with me. The Jarl wishes to see you."

 _They've realised I'm innocent. They're releasing me. I'm_ free _._

She couldn't help but look back, however, at the man in the cell beside hers. A young, dirty yet kindly Breton face looked back at her, and he was grinning. She thought he might be less than sane.

"Reap the rewards," he called out to her. "And find my sister, Tamare. Tell her I'm okay."

"I – I will," Aralyn nodded, before getting pushed forward, into the familiar stairwell leading up to the hall of the Palace of the Kings.

"Hurry up, elf. Before I change my mind."


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

 **Summary:** Mistrust looms as prominently as ever, but the love Aralyn has for her home knows no bounds. "Is this the part where you have me killed?"

 **A/N:** Thank you to those who have followed this story! For those who haven't yet done so, I offer you a brand new, limited time offer – review and/or follow this story and get one sweetroll absolutely **free**. Crazy, I know. Get 'em while the icing's soft.

* * *

 **ULFRIC**

News had come in that morning via the soldiers he'd sent out to the Rift with a warning. After locating the information which told them where the brother of the Altmer prisoner was stationed, he had ordered a simple little message be sent to the legate, letting him and anyone else know that espionage would not be regarded kindly if it were ever to occur again. It was an effort at intimidation, as well as a clear affirmation that the Stormcloaks could not be fooled that easily.

So evidently, in light of these recent developments, Ulfric wasn't entirely thrilled to hear what word the soldiers had brought back to Windhelm.

"I swear it, my lord. I saw and heard it for myself."

"The girl truly is as innocent as she claims."

"The legate had no idea of the plans."

"He actually said with his own –"

"Enough." His hand still in the air in gesture for silence, Ulfric turned to look at Galmar, who looked noticeably pale. "How do we know this is true, and not simply another trick?" he asked, lowering his hand.

The soldiers glanced at each other, before one of them finally spoke up. "We saw him, Jarl Ulfric," he explained. "His expression, his reaction, everything. It was not a man who had carefully calculated a plan and had it fail."

"At first we also thought he was acting," the second piped up. "Even when we told him we had captured a spy and that it was his sister. But my Jarl... I do not believe any man to be capable of feigning shock like that, no matter how good an actor he might be."

"We continued to tell him that this woman sought to join the Stormcloaks," the first soldier jumped in again. "He was furious then. He told us he would never send his own sister to spy for him, and that she had betrayed him and he didn't care what happened to her anymore. He then ordered us to get out of his camp immediately. So we left."

"And came straight back here," the second soldier added unnecessarily.

Ulfric rubbed his temples, frowning. If this was true, and the Altmer was not a spy after all, it lay to ruin every expectation he possessed of her and her kind. It didn't make sense at all.

"I say damn her," Galmar offered his two septims without being asked. "So what if she's not been proven a spy. What reason should we have for believing her, anyway? And since when does a Nordic rebellion accept elves – _high elves_ , no less – as soldiers?"

A fair argument, but he wasn't convinced. One thing he had always tried to be was fair, and was it fair to imprison someone according to the sins of their race? Tempting, yes; but fair – certainly not. He'd had his fair share of experience with unjust imprisonment.

"The Altmer believe themselves superior," Ulfric spoke. "They wish to take our lands and enslave us as they once did, long ago. This woman... she has the heritage, the brother, and the allegiance – whether former or not to give her reason to work against us. And yet, she claims to wish to join us. Has the world gone mad or have I?"

"She lies, Ulfric," Galmar hissed insistently. "It is what elves do best."

He looked to Jorleif, who was taking in the conversation silently but intently. "Jorleif, what do you make of this. Am I a fool to trust her, or am I a fool to condemn her?"

Jorleif was silent for a long moment, clearly feeling the pressure of having his opinion sought out. Finally, he spoke: "Both might be 'foolish', my Jarl. It is true that evidence serves to incriminate her, after all she is a high elf, she was seen among the Imperials and Thalmor at Helgen, and her brother is a legate, no less. Further, she is –"

He watched Jorleif struggle to express his point with hidden amusement, tucking his chin in his hand and controlling his facial expression as the man gestured with his hands as if trying to conjure up the correct sentence.

"She is _not_ unattractive," he finally said with some difficulty. "And the Altmer are known to be intelligent and well-spoken. It is clear to see why she would be effective in pleading acceptance and gaining trust as a spy. However... I do not think allowing her to prove herself will require a great deal of trust. Her loyalty and true motives will come to surface soon enough, given the time." The steward then shrunk back a little, looking sheepish. "But that is, of course, simply my opinion."

"Thank you, Jorleif." Ulfric nodded before turning to the soldiers still standing before him, seemingly deciding for themselves. "You may both go down to the barracks and rest after your long journey. Send one of the guards to bring me the prisoner, I wish to speak with her."

"Ulfric!" Galmar protested. "Is releasing her really –"

"What?" Ulfric demanded. "Wise? Maybe not. But I do not seek to have her released. I seek her true motives, as Jorleif said. And you will assist me with this."

"My Jarl," the large housecarl said, visibly unnerved. "I do not wish to deal with snotty high elves."

"I hardly care," the jarl said firmly, eyes narrowed. "You will do as I order. Jorleif..."

The steward immediately stood ready. "Yes?"

"Go and fetch a uniform for the Altmer. We can't very well send her off in rags."

"Certainly, my jarl. Immediately."

Galmar watched him leave in a hurry, before shaking his head disapprovingly. "You know I follow you no matter what," he said. "If you truly mean to recruit this... _this woman_ , then I will accept your decision. But I will not be easy on her."

"That's what I'm counting on."

The door to the barracks swung open, and a guard appeared, escorting the prisoner into the hall. He practically dragged the slow-paced Altmer after him, stopping before Ulfric's throne, where he deposited her on the stone floor, forcing her to her knees.

"Do I really need to be on my knees for this," she demanded, staring up at the guard fiercely, though he didn't spare her a second glance.

"Help her up," Ulfric told him, and the guard immediately did as he was bid; albeit a little too roughly. "What was your name again?"

She shook her hair out of her tired eyes before replying. "Aralyn."

Studying the high elf, dirty and skinny and lethargic in her posture, Ulfric acknowledged she was as beautiful as Jorleif had mentioned in his argumentative speech earlier, though the jarl had already been aware of that from the first time she'd been brought before him. A pretty face and pretty words hadn't made her a Stormcloak instantly, and neither were they what had gotten her back in his presence now – rather, it was the absence of guilt. Or presumed absence of guilt.

"My soldiers recently visited the Rift," he told her. Her eyebrows rose, but she said nothing. "They returned to tell me that they had reason to doubt your guilt."

"That's because I have no guilt," she responded firmly, golden eyes hardening.

Her attitude certainly did not betray her race.

"We had plenty reason to believe otherwise," Ulfric retorted immediately, tone sharp. "An Altmer, sister to an Imperial legate, present among Thalmor at Helgen, seeking to join our ranks. Was our suspicion unfounded?"

She was silent at that, her head lowering momentarily. "I came in sincerity," she replied, voice low; almost regretful. "I did not stop to think what my previous situation or my family ties would do to affect my request to help your cause. Perhaps your suspicion indeed isn't unfounded, but I know my intentions are pure."

"And you ask that I trust you on your word."

"Yes."

Ulfric rested his elbow on the armrest of his throne, his chin sitting in the flat of his upturned palm as he observed her. Defiant, determined, a little too brash, but not a huge risk, if they were careful to monitor what she did, where she went, what she heard and what she saw. "Do you have any skill in combat?"

"I am very adept with the bow and arrow," she affirmed, standing straighter. "I am decent with a sword, but I can train to improve."

"What of the possibility of you meeting fellow Altmer on the battlefront," the jarl asked carefully. "Would you claim to fight for the Stormcloaks no matter what, even against your own kin?"

Aralyn stared back at him, and he knew by the flicker in his gaze that she hadn't been entirely sure at first. But then she swallowed and replied steadily: "I would remain loyal to the Stormcloaks, no matter what, even against my own kin, should they be an enemy to this cause."

Ulfric nodded. Her words were impressive, but she would have to impress him with more than just words. "If I would choose to accept your recruitment, Galmar, my housecarl and general, will be supervising your training and progression as a Stormcloak."

To his surprise, Aralyn let out a loud scoff, her expression full of laughter but her gaze full of contempt as she looked at Galmar. "What, you mean _him_?" she exclaimed. "The one who compared me, an Altmer commoner, to the Dunmer Queen Barenziah?"

Galmar roared his indignance, advancing toward her threateningly. "The prison suited you much better than a palace hall, elf," he spat, but Ulfric ordered him to return to his position.

"Calm yourself, Galmar."

He caught the taunting expression that flashed across Aralyn's face at his housecarl, but it quickly washed away when she faced Ulfric again. Beside him, he thought he heard Jorleif chuckle.

"I will accept your terms," she replied, "as long as you treat me like any of your other soldiers."

"Nord or not," Ulfric answered, "anyone who claims reason to join us must initially prove their ability and commitment. This is why you will be given a test first, before we even consider you for a position in my militia."

Aralyn looked at him studiously, as if she were searching his eyes for his very soul. He frowned at her in response. "This _test_ ," she finally began; "is this because I need to prove my skill, or is it because I am a high elf?"

"You speak very boldly for someone in such a precarious position," the jarl replied curtly, before turning his head to face Jorleif, who stood aside in waiting. "Hand her the uniform. Guard, release her from her cuffs."

Her arms barely had the chance to fall to her sides before Jorleif was placing a neatly folded Stormcloak cuirass in them, along with a pair of fur boots and fur gauntlets onto, until her face could barely even be seen above the chunky heap. "These are yours to keep," Ulfric heard him telling her. "The armor is the smallest set I could find; I hope it isn't an ill fit. If it is, we can have it taken in once you return."

"You are too kind," Aralyn replied with a grateful nod, before turning to face the jarl once more, awaiting further instruction.

Ulfric tilted his head to the right, indicating the arch which his housecarl had begun to walk toward, mumbling under his breath. "Follow Galmar. Get dressed, heed his orders, and we'll see if you really are fit to become a Stormcloak."

* * *

 **ARALYN**

"Damn elves," she heard Galmar muttering as they walked through the arch into the slight hall leading into a war room. "I joined this bloody war to fight you lot, not become your keeper."

"We're on the same side now, old man," Aralyn answered with a roll of her eyes, "and I'm not any happier about the arrangement than you are."

The war room was spacious enough, a long table rested against the left wall and a door on the right; and a smaller table stood in the middle of the room, covered with a large map of Skyrim which was pierced with red and blue markers.

Aralyn sat herself down in a chair, sighing happily at the big difference in comfort from the hay on the cold stone floor of her cell, before setting the new armor set on the table and swapping her footwraps for the new ones tucked inside the boots. She could tell Galmar was watching her impatiently, waiting for her to stop and pay attention to him, so she deliberately took her time wrapping her feet and then sinking into the fur boots, the thick, warm shoes feeling more luxurious than the expensive fancy ones she owned back home.

"Can't you do that later," Galmar demanded irritably, and Aralyn smiled at him, though the expression was sour.

"I just wanted to change my shoes," she replied. "I should change into my armor here too, but you would probably enjoy that too much."

"That's what you like to think, is it." The large, burly man walked over to the map, but the red of his cheeks was enough to tell that he was flustered.

She joined him at the table anyway, crossing her arms and sighing. "Just tell me what I need to do and let's cut this delightful date short," she urged, and he gave her a withering look.

"If I'm lucky, you'll fail."

"That is very unkind."

Galmar snorted humourlessly. "Indeed, not my intention at _all_." He jabbed a spot on the map with a thick finger as if he wanted to wound it, and Aralyn looked over his arm to see where it was. "This is where you're going."

"North of Winterhold?" she asked apprehensively.

"Yes." The general turned to face her, towering over her. He could probably crush her with just one hand, she thought, but she wasn't intimidated. He didn't trust her, that was for sure, but he couldn't write her off just like that. She needed to prove herself, and she hoped he was going to let her do just that. "You're going to go there, Serpentstone Island, where you'll very likely find an ice wraith or two. Kill one, bring me back something of its remains, and consider your competence and commitment proven."

"Is this the part where you have me killed?"

"The only person who could have you killed is you, yourself." He held out his hand, and she accepted the 'gift' he offered – a potion of cold resistance. "Here. Take this. You'll need it. Use it on the island."

She gripped the small bottle in her hand, letting out an exhale. "How likely is it I'll die from the freezing cold before I even see an ice wraith?" Aralyn asked dryly.

"Likely," Galmar nodded with a twist of his mouth. "But if you do, then this clearly isn't the war for you."

"And why is this the war for you?" she asked, changing the topic. "What is your reason for joining this fight?"

"Reason?" he asked disbelievingly. "Since when does a man need a reason to protect his family, to defend his homeland? It's the damn outlanders and Empire that need the reasons."

"And I count among these 'outlanders'?"

"Yes," he answered immediately, to her slight surprise. "And I don't trust you. But if Ulfric thinks you may be what you claim to be, then I won't say no to an extra soldier."

Aralyn raised an eyebrow, sceptical. "Nice to know your hatred of elves doesn't run _that_ deep."

"You mistake me." Galmar shook his head. "High elves haven't been our best of friends, you know that. I can't just leap to trust one when she strides in asking me to. The Stormcloaks need dedicated men and women who're devoted to the cause and willing to die for it."

"Skyrim is my home," Aralyn argued. "I am devoted to protecting it from those of my kind who have chosen the wrong path, and from an Empire which has followed them. If the Stormcloaks possess that same purpose, then there is no reason why I shouldn't become one myself."

"Fair enough. But are you willing to die for your home, for your purpose?"

"Yes." She nodded once, determination set in her brow. "I am."

"Good. Then get armoured up and go kill an ice wraith." He pointed at the bottle firmly clutched in her hand. "Don't lose it, understand? That's all the help you're getting. Try not to die."

She swallowed. _That's definitely the plan._


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

 **Summary:** The road back to Windhelm is interrupted by a winged enemy with a fiery breath and a mysterious warrior with a loud shout. "Death or Sovngarde!"

 **A/N:** The Dragonborn comes. Here begins a little acquaintanceship between Aralyn and the Dragonborn, and the next chapter will start with her arrival back in Windhelm and then lead into a family reunion with Fasendil. Yay!

P.S. Oh yeah, and review pretty please!

* * *

 **ARALYN**

She was playing a running game.

The creature, very ghostly and very frightening, veered swiftly around the serpent stones like a fish through water, chasing Aralyn as she tried to gain enough distance so she could draw and shoot.

It hissed angrily at her, already having two arrows buried in its crystalline figure, and she knew that as unreal as it looked; its sharp teeth would feel _very_ real if she let it catch her.

"Oh come _on_!" she yelled at it, and it screeched back at her as if in response. "Stay still so I can kill you!"

Sweat beaded her forehead from all her frantic running, and at this point it seemed the potion of resist cold had either worked well, or it hadn't been necessary at all. The freezing temperatures were long forgotten, but maybe that was just because she had different sort of chills that cut to the bone.

Aralyn slid to a slippery stop behind a stone, hiding for a second while she equipped a new arrow, before leaping out to aim. But as she did, she realised she had nothing to target – the wraith wasn't anywhere in sight. Suspiciously, she crept toward the middle of the area; string pulled tight, her laboured breathing causing the arrow to tremble atop her thumb.

Suddenly there was another screech, and the ice wraith was right in her line of vision, making its way toward her fast. In her startled state, her arrow went flying way off aim, and she barely managed to hit the floor before the creature got her, coughing as snow blew into her face. She got up quickly, retrieving her bow and stringing an arrow faster than she'd ever done before.

The wraith made a sharp turn, staring straight at her once again, and Aralyn inhaled fast, exhaled slow – and her arrow finally made its mark, right into the serpent's open mouth. It fell to the ground writhing before disintegrating into a pile of icy particles, and even with relief and adrenaline coursing through her veins; Aralyn fell too; kneeling on the ground as she caught her breath. It was then that she noticed the wound on her arm, a slice that had cut straight through the long sleeve of the brown tunic. _Damn ice wraith._

She fished out the bottle from Galmar, uncapping it and attempting to spill whatever tiny amount of it onto the wound. She wondered if that was a silly thing to try. After all, it was the ice wraith that had caused it, right? Why shouldn't cold resistance help? _A healing remedy might've worked a bit better, stupid._

Aralyn gave up, abandoning the bottle in the snow and sighing loudly into the silence. The cold started to make itself known again now that she'd stopped moving, especially now that she was sweaty. She crawled toward the pile of ice, sifting through the remains with gloved hands before picking out a couple of those sharp teeth. Fascinating, really – they weren't entirely made of _ice_ , so to speak. At least, not in its organic form. She sniffled as she placed them in the pouch where she'd kept the potion bottle, and pushed herself up. It was something past noon, and she had to hurry up. If she could just get to the inn at Winterhold, she could patch herself up, get some food and rest, and be on her way back to Windhelm by dawn.

Climbing up the hill leading toward the town of Winterhold, Aralyn glanced at the looming college above, seemingly hanging on a thread. It didn't give off any sort of ill feeling or bad omen, but it still seemed somewhat eerie to her. Then again, a lot of places in Skyrim were dark and mysterious. Maybe her days in sunny, friendly Whiterun had made her a tad bit too timid.

A strange sound in the distance had her pausing in step, anxiety seeping in along with the cold around her. It didn't repeat, however, nor did anything happen in the aftermath, but she hurried her pace anyway. By the time she'd reached town, she was a sweating, panting mess once again. _Time to find the inn._

The Frozen Hearth was less frozen than it sounded, and the heat of the fire inside immediately melted away every bit of cold left in her. She walked right up to the hearth, sighing as she rubbed her palms together. The environment in the place was a welcome change – the lively chatter, the lute music, the smell of freshly-cooked food... certainly better than being in the middle of nowhere among strange stones which seemed to attract ice monsters.

"Pardon me," she inquired once she'd approached the innkeeper at the counter. "Do you have any cloth or bandages?"

The woman looked at her with an uncertain look. "I'm not sure, my dear," she replied. "You may have better luck at Birna's store."

"Alright. I will return later for –"

"I have some supplies."

It was a male voice, and Aralyn turned around, finding the gaze of a man sitting alone at one of the tables. His hair was black as night, part of it tied back out of his face; and he wore unfamiliar armour, with steel plates over a leather kirtle and a fur pelt. A long scar ran from between his eyebrows across his right cheek and to the bottom of his jaw, and his eyes were dark, almost colourless. He didn't seem like the kind type, but Aralyn didn't waste too much time judging the worth of his character.

"What will it cost me?" she asked, not too naive to assume instantly that he offered her a free deal.

"A bottle of mead and we'll call it even."

Aralyn turned to the woman, who'd been clearly following the little conversation, for she immediately gave a nod and offered a bottle readily. With a coin purse five septims lighter, she sat at the man's table and pushed the mead toward him, holding out an expectant hand afterward for his part of the exchange.

His expression then broke with a smile, startling her, and he reached into his pack, removing a small round sack, which Aralyn opened to find several trimmings of linen, either roughly cut or torn. "Seems like you really need it," he commented, probably after noting her sigh of relief.

"Wouldn't be buying mead for strangers if I didn't," she agreed.

"Wait," he said, "here." He took something else from his pack, handing her what seemed to be a small vial of liquid salve. "You probably need it more."

Cynicism immediately told her to regard any bottle of liquid with suspicion, but this time she chided herself immediately for the silly notion, and accepted the vial with a grateful nod. As she ripped her sleeve open even more than it had been by the wraith's attack, she wet her finger with the salve before dabbing it gently onto the wound. It stung for a moment before the soothing sensation of the remedy took effect almost instantly.

"Ice wraith?" he asked, and she glanced at him in surprise.

"How'd you figure?"

"Battled plenty before."

"Yeah well," she said with a curl of her lips, "I was given a potion to help against the ice, but I'm not sure it worked."

"Probably did, if it's not infected yet."

She picked up one of the swathes of linen to wrap her arm with, but it wasn't at all a one-handed job.

The warrior beside her chuckled at her poor attempts, and she glared at him. "Maybe," he suggested, "you might require some help?"

"None that I'll ask for," she replied swiftly, much to his apparent amusement. "Besides, I am in your debt already."

"What, for the remedy?" The man shook his head with a smile, putting down his drink to help her. "You can just buy me another round of mead."

A grin spread across Aralyn's face unbidden, before she pointed with her free hand at his progress with the linen on her arm. "And what's this going to cost me?"

"Nothing. Maybe just a name."

"Aralyn."

"I'm Torrhen," he offered in return, tying up the cloth tight before returning to his drink. "So then, Aralyn slayer of ice wraiths. What brings you this far up north?"

"Don't blend in, do I?"

"Not at all."

It made her smile as she looked down at the remaining bundle of wraps, figuring out how to explain her task without announcing she was part of a rebellion she hadn't even been accepted into yet. "I've never been to Winterhold before," she said. "So I figured I'd just see the sights."

Torrhen let out a dry laugh at that. "The sights, huh. I'll pretend to believe that," he assured, and she barely held back her own laugh.

But before she could say anything in response, a sound echoed from outside – the same one she'd heard on her way up to town, though this time it sounded _much_ closer, enough so that she could've sworn she'd felt the ground tremble under her feet.

"Did you hear that?" she murmured, eyes wide as she looked at Torrhen; his own brow knitted tight as his gaze left hers to glance upward, as if concentrating on the skies beyond the ceiling. "What is it?"

"Hopefully..." he began, standing and unsheathing his huge blade, "not what I think it is."

Something in the tone of his voice had Aralyn standing up to follow, the linen and mead abandoned at the table as they both made for the entrance and hurried out into the snow and blistering wind –

She saw nothing but white and gray, her cheeks stinging from the wind and ice against her face, but Torrhen grabbed her wrist and shook her, pointing at the sky almost directly above the giant College. "There!"

Disbelief and fear hit Aralyn like a mad wild stallion. The dark, jagged, sinister silhouette of a winged creature appeared in the snowfall, a dark figure cutting through the white sky, and it was gaining speed as it drew closer, opening its mouth to screech at them.

The townsfolk screamed and scurried in search of safety, and Aralyn almost had a mind to join them. Many things she had seen in her lifetime, but none of them had been dragons, and she could barely escape a battle with an ice wraith unscathed. Standing in the open with a man she had just met, ready to fight a dragon... definitely one of her more foolish decisions.

"I don't have my bow!" She heard Torrhen yell at her over the loud wind and roaring of the dragon. "I need you to shoot for me!"

 _Shoot for him? How good does he think I am?_ "I don't think –"

"There's no time for thinking!" he shouted. "Death or Sovngarde!"

Before she could yell at him – in rather petty and inappropriately-timed fashion – that elves didn't go to Sovngarde, he was yanking her bow off its hook on the back of her armor, shoving it into her hands before moving to stand right in the centre of the road, in clear sight. "Stick him with as many arrows as you can, and I'll lure him up the hill. We need to get him to land outside of the town!"

His word rung in her head like a belated echo, her mouth still open as snowflakes fell into her wide-open eyes.

And then she was running, heading toward a wooden ruin of a house, pulling an arrow from her quiver and aiming at the fast-approaching creature. Her hands trembled, her heart beating and pulse racing too fast to get a steady shot, and when the beast finally flew over her head and circled the town, she released the arrow with a shaky hand and a whimper. _Gods have mercy; I'm not going to survive this_.

The arrow met its mark in the tip of its wing, and the dragon growled angrily. Aralyn stood frozen in shock for a moment – she'd actually got him.

"Good!" Torrhen's voice came in a hoarse cry. "Keep doing that!"

Whether it was the adrenaline or pure courageous energy elicited by Torrhen's emboldening words, Aralyn had another arrow poised to shoot, this one meeting its mark in the dragon's side, just below its wing. Another found the center of its wing, and her fourth arrow met its tail. Flight seriously hindered, she saw the dragon begin to falter, and its attention fell upon the lone warrior standing in the middle of the road.

" _Run!_ " she screamed at him, but Torrhen seemingly had other plans. He stood his ground, taunting the dragon, and the elf took the matter upon herself; taking another arrow out to aim at the incoming dragon.

Then suddenly, in a moment Aralyn thought she might never forget for as long as she would live: Torrhen opened his mouth as the dragon dove with its own jaws spread, ready to breathe out a flood of fire into the street – and instead of fire, she saw Torrhen shout a foreign word, but instead of just a spoken word, it emerged from his mouth like... like...

It was as if a giant, powerful gust of wind forced the dragon back, and it had come from Torrhen's own mouth. Thrown backward in the air, the giant stuttered in its attempt to regain balance; and Aralyn took the chance the run from the ruined house toward Torrhen, who then began to run up the hill. "Hurry!" he called back, and she didn't need to be told twice – especially when she heard the furious roar behind them, and the loud batting of leathery wings gaining altitude in the wind.

Just as they were about to reach the top of the hill, Torrhen suddenly pushed Aralyn hard, and both of them were flat on their bellies when the dragon swooped down above them, missing their heads only by a hair; crashing to the ground ahead of them. Gasping for air as she pushed herself up onto her feet, the elven woman felt her body shaking violently with cold, adrenaline and fear, picking up her bow in a rush and aiming at the writhing, bloodied dragon, as it tried to turn around to face them, its movements awkward as a lizard.

The black-haired warrior beside her took the lead though, charging forward to attack the beast with his greatsword drawn, but she felt almost paralysed as she watched him, fearless. Who exactly was he – or _what_ was he? Surely he couldn't be the legend the old stories spoke of, the mythical one born with the blood of the dragon...

"Aralyn!"

Torrhen's shout forced her into action, and she released the arrow she'd been holding tight, its head burying itself into the side of the dragon's belly – and effectively turning the giant's attention toward her. Inhaling sharply, she began to backtrack, fumbling with her bow and arrow, the dragon growling and making chase as huge scaly feet with claws crunched in the snow and shook the ground beneath her. The next time she looked up, she was faced with huge open jaws, and without thinking twice she flung herself out of the way, barely escaping the inferno which consumed the very spot she'd been standing in – but she knew that the direction of the flames could be redirected with a simple turn of the head. She trembled and tried to push herself up, wondering if each breath might be her last.

Suddenly, the fire just stopped, as if someone had just flung water into the dragon's mouth. Aralyn was panting heavily; almost choking on plain air, but when she finally dared to look up, she found Torrhen standing right by the dragon's green head as it lay there dead, gripping the handle of the greatsword which was buried in the reptile's neck and yanking it out.

And then, in a flurry of wind, Torrhen almost seemed to disappear in a shroud of fiery wisps of energy, some sort of power coming from the dragon's limp form, before it all faded away, leaving nothing but the warrior and the skeleton of the dragon.

"By the gods." She stared at the man, uncertain of what she should do.

Torrhen finally laid his eyes on her, and Aralyn swallowed hard, instinctively drawing back as she got back up on her feet. She'd seen a lot of magical spells, miracles and mystical events, but she'd never seen anything quite like _this_ before. If he was what she believed him to be; then he was the promised saviour, the Dragonborn of legend, and the one who would battle the harbinger of the end times and save the world. She remembered the children's tales her parents used to tell her, as well as the texts and lore she and Fasendil had sought out and read through in fascination - but it had all been a myth to them, a fantastical story that they loved but never entertained as something that might be reality.

And now here he stood before her, as real as could be.

"Please don't be afraid," he beseeched, attempting to step closer, though carefully.

Aralyn let out a nervous chuckle, though she didn't shrink away any further. "That's quite the request."

Torrhen smiled sheepishly. "Consider us even for the salve?" he suggested, gesturing vaguely with an arm.

It made her laugh despite herself, and she finally approached him. There was nothing different about him, except he seemed to almost... radiate a certain power. But maybe that was just her imagination. "What are you?" she asked quietly, like she was asking him to tell a secret. Maybe, in a way, she was. "Are you..."

He bowed his head, somewhat humbly. "Dragonborn?" he finished, gaze lifting to look at her despite his lowered head. "Yes. But it's all very new to me."

"Why didn't you say so earlier?" Aralyn frowned. "You might've saved me the shock."

"Unfortunately," Torrhen replied, amused, "it's not really the sort of thing you announce to someone you've just met while having drinks and bandaging wounds."

"I suppose not." Reminded suddenly of the ice wraith mission, Aralyn checked her pouch, finding the teeth still intact, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"You're a good marksman, though," he continued. "If you train yourself out of that hesitation, you might even become great."

"I appreciate such a compliment from the great Dragonborn," she smiled, "though I'd sooner pick up some talent with a blade."

Torrhen raised an eyebrow. "Really? Well, I'm not much of a teacher, but I do possess the skills to teach."

She was so close to accepting his offer, before she once again remembered the fragments in her pouch, and sighed as she shook her head. "That would be amazing," she said, "and kind of you. But I need to leave at first light; I have to meet somebody as soon as possible." Suddenly the rebellion seemed of lesser importance in the face of this man; a living, breathing prophesied hero. But she had professed dedication and commitment to the Stormcloaks, and she would not break it; especially not mere days after she had begun.

"I understand," he nodded. "But... if you're not too bruised up, we could fit in a training session right now, if you like. You can buy me dinner in exchange."

A wide smile crossed Aralyn's features as she contemplated the idea for only a brief moment before nodding. "Alright, you have yourself a deal, Dragonborn."


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

 **Summary:** The quest to find a crown fit for a king begins, and Aralyn discovers she's not the only member of her family looking for it. "And damn the Moot!"

 **A/N:** I'm trying to insert as much of the in-game dialogue as I can, while also changing it up a bit and adding more alternatives so that there aren't big chunks of the same lines we've all heard before. The questlines are also going to vary somewhat. I really hope you're all enjoying the story so far. _P.S:_ I haven't revised it yet but I really wanted to publish it sooner rather than later, so please ignore any silly errors until I get around to fixing them!

* * *

 **ARALYN**

Walking into the palace felt like a triumphant march back from war.

In no way did she feel her best – she was dirty and wet and a little bloodied, her arm still hurt a little and there was nothing about her appearance that she could boast about; but she certainly felt like a _victor_.

The hall was empty save for Jorleif and a few servants, but she knew where else she'd find Ulfric and his housecarl. Before she could stroll in, however, she found herself pausing in the archway when she heard a heated conversation taking place. The Jarl, his general, and another burly man who seemed to be another Stormcloak officer were in the room talking; though the latter sat in a chair she could only partially see from her position, and the former two had their backs turned enough not to notice her unless she walked around the table, and she thought it might be odd to interrupt now.

"Tell me again why we're wasting time and dwindling resources chasing a legend," Ulfric was saying. "We don't even know it exists!"

"The Jarls are upset," Galmar responded glumly. "They don't all support you."

"Damn the Jarls."

"They demand the Moot," the officer added.

Aralyn almost jumped, startled when Ulfric's fist suddenly hit the table. "And damn the Moot!" he growled. "We should risk letting those milkdrinkers put Torygg's woman on the throne? She'll hand Skyrim over to the elves on a silver plate."

"All the more reason then," Galmar argued; his voice low but tone urgent.

A short pause gave Aralyn enough space to clear her throat, drawing the attention of all three men upon her as she stepped into the room, presenting the ice wraith's teeth in a gloved hand. "Pardon my interruption."

Both Galmar and Ulfric looked stunned to see that she'd succeeded – which, honestly, was a little wounding. Had they expected her to die? Sure, she was no hardy Nord, she was a female, and she was small in spite of the extended height typical of her race – but she didn't seem _that_ weak and helpless, did she?

"You're alive," Galmar exclaimed, rubbing salt into her pride. "I have to admit, I didn't think we'd be seeing you again."

Aralyn pocketed the teeth again with a frown. Apparently she did seem that weak and helpless. "Flattering."

"Tough job?"

The Altmer paused, considering the full story of her adventures in Winterhold, before deciding against recounting the Dragonborn encounter – for now. She was aware that, despite the fact that everyone in Skyrim knew dragons were no longer a myth, it would sound outlandish and demand too much explanation. She'd tell them all about it some other time. "I expected tougher."

The large man snorted before turning to Ulfric. "Suppose I owe you a drink."

She looked at the Jarl in surprise at the little revelation, but he'd beat her to it; already staring at her with enough intensity that she couldn't hold his gaze and had to return to looking at the general.

"You know what they say about small packages," Ulfric said.

"Indeed, I misjudged the elf."

Holding back an argument about referring to her by her name and not the blanket term of 'elf', she crossed her arms over her chest; vaguely upset that she was too short to avoid looking up at him. "So then, you finally trust me?" she asked.

"Trust is another matter," Ulfric suddenly said. "But you're certainly Stormcloak material."

Aralyn stared at him, trying to figure out what he was thinking, but his stern face and stern tone of voice revealed nothing as to why he still mistrusted her or what it would take to change that.

"It's time we made this official," Galmar announced. "You ready to take the Oath?"

"I've been ready since I first walked into Eastmarch."

A soft chuckle may or may not have escaped Ulfric.

"Repeat after me," the housecarl told her, ignoring her remark.

The high elf felt self-conscious with all three staring at her as she prepared to repeat Galmar's words, but once she began reciting, she forgot all about it. She had renounced a lot for this rebellion, but she knew that this was what she wanted to do. She might be an Altmer, but Skyrim _was_ her home, and she _was_ a daughter of Skyrim, no matter what anyone said.

" _I do swear my blood and honor to the service of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm and true High King of Skyrim. As Talos is my witness, may this oath bind me to death and beyond, even to my lord as to my fellow brothers and sisters in arms. All hail the Stormcloaks, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim!_ "

Blue eyes were upon her, and this time she met them without falter, staring at Ulfric until the corner of his lips tilted up by just a fraction. Maybe she might just gain his trust yet.

Galmar cleared his throat, and Ulfric resumed the conversation on cue, as if nothing had happened. "So tell me what value you believe this crown possesses."

"The crown would legitimize your claim," the housecarl said, but Ulfric sounded as unconvinced as he did when Aralyn had first walked in.

"A crown doesn't make a king."

"No, but this one..."

Ulfric grunted. "If it even exists."

Aralyn stood aside, listening silently along with the nameless officer; though she was still utterly confused as to the crown they spoke about, and what they planned to use it for.

" _It exists_ ," Galmar insisted, "and it'll be the symbol of the righteousness of our cause. Think about it. The Jagged Crown! It heralds back to a time before Jarls and Moots. Back to the time when a king was a king because his enemies fell before him, and his people rose because they loved him. Skyrim needs that king. You will be that king, Ulfric. You _must_ be."

There was a long pause, before the Jarl finally spoke again. "You're certain you've found it?"

The bear-man released an indignant scoff. "When have I ever been false with you? Of course I'm certain."

"And what is your plan?"

"Tomorrow," Galmar said, gesturing to the officer in the chair, "come nightfall, Yrsarald will take a group of ten or fifteen men to raid Korvanjund and retrieve the crown."

Ulfric's eyes found Aralyn's once more, and then he sighed. "Fine. Send her with him." A slight smile graced his features. "What do you say, Unblooded. Fancy a crawl through a moldering dungeon to see if you can't stir up Galmar's Jagged Crown?"

The Altmer wrinkled her nose. Well, she supposed she could have been given worse titles than 'unblooded'. She glanced back at the officer – Yrsarald, a man almost as large as Galmar, but probably nicer than Galmar – and he gave her a small smile. "Don't worry. Nothing we won't be able to handle."

Galmar grunted. "It'll be there. You'll see."

* * *

 **FASENDIL**

The night was cold and the snow had just begun to fall. If he had ever complained about being stationed in quiet snowless Riften, he took it all back now. It was all he had been able to do to hold back his indignation when he was told of his temporary reassignment to an ancient tomb in the Whiterun hold – as a _guard_ , no less. Him, a legate, an Imperial of high status in his own right, appointed to guard duty. All because of a rumour, an assumption.

The tomb was the final resting place of High King Borgas, whom Fasendil remembered from the tales and texts he'd read of the Great Hunt. The king had worn a crown which had become a legend itself, a crown made of dragon teeth and said to possess magic of some sort. Someone believed the Stormcloaks had a mind to raid the tomb and steal the crown, and someone had also nominated Fasendil as the best man to stop that from happening.

If it even did happen.

The legate knew that despite his doubtless dedication and commitment to the Empire, there were still many who still saw him as less of an Imperial soldier than he was an Altmer; part of a race that were currently the Empire's biggest enemy, treaty or not. It wasn't a huge surprise that he was given a mediocre task such as this. He had met Tullius several times but he'd never really gotten to know the man personally; nevertheless it wasn't out of racial judgment that he was here.

He couldn't help but think rotten old Hjorn was behind this – the man who had taken great interest in the fact that Fasendil's sister had gone to join the Stormcloaks. The faction that the Altmer legate now sought to obstruct from entering Korvanjund.

Returning to the tomb from his scouting of the area, Fasendil cursed when he saw the rising smoke coming from the lowest level of the entrance, near the gate.

"Imbeciles!" he hissed, rushing down the steps to meet the soldiers who had decided to make a fire against the cold of the snow. Immediately, he grabbed the sleeping mat of one of the men to use it to smother the slowly-growing flames until they died out. "We are here to surprise the Stormcloaks, not have them surprise _us_!"

The three soldiers by the fire looked at one another nervously, while a fourth looked upon the damaged sleeping mat sadly.

"Whose genius idea was it to light a fire," Fasendil demanded, keeping his voice down though his anger boiled under the surface.

"It was – it was cold, sir," one of the soldiers, an Imperial, said meekly. "I didn't think it would do any harm."

The high elf met him face-to-face, leaving little space for comfort. "You will be the next to patrol the area, and I suggest you rug up before you go. It's _cold_ out there."

The soldier looked absolutely distressed, but obeyed his orders without further question, rushing up the steps. Fasendil left the others with nothing more than a warning glance at each, lest any of them have any more stupid ideas.

Silence befell the camp for nothing more than a few minutes when disaster struck.

"Legate!"

It was the patrol soldier's voice, crying out in warning before his body fell down the steps. Stormcloak soldiers spilled into the area, catching them off-guard and trapping them in, and Fasendil knew the smoke hadn't been extinguished fast enough to avoid giving their position away.

"Archers!" the legate shouted. The battlefield they found themselves on was a small and enclosed pit, and their best chance to even out the numbers was to shoot them as they came down the steps.

Fasendil drew his sword, meeting the enemy head-on. The rebels were an almost-exclusively Nordic troop, and what they possessed in strength they lacked in speed and agility. He danced his way around a red-haired sword-wielding Stormcloak, parrying twice before serving a swift slice to the stomach followed by a kick to the chest. He spun around as another came bellowing at him, sword tilting to block the descent of an axe before he used the momentum to push the soldier backward and impale him on his sword mid-stagger.

Suddenly the pit was almost filled with Stormcloaks, more than should have been. Fasendil glanced up questioningly at his archers; only to be horrified to see the final bowman struck down, killed by an arrow through the neck delivered by none other than his sister.

Another onslaught forcibly distracted him from the sight as he jumped out of the way of a battleaxe slicing through the air – dodging the blade once, twice, thrice, before the brawny soldier finally gave up with a roar, spinning the axe and hitting Fasendil square in the stomach with the other end, knocking him to the ground.

He gasped for air. His surroundings spun around him, and he saw multiple figures crowding around him, all dressed in Eastmarch colours. He was the only one of his men left standing.

Figuratively speaking.

Then a smaller silhouette than the rest appeared in his line of vision, with a head of black hair and sharp golden eyes, her face clearer by the second. Dressed in Stormcloak garb, a bow on her back and a stricken expression on her face – Aralyn. For a moment, it was as if he were dreaming, because he could not fathom how this could be reality.

"Well well well, an elf – and a _legate_ , no less!"

Fasendil tore his eyes from his sister to look at the man who had spoken, before trying to get up – only to be kept down at sword-point; his own weapon being swiped out of his reach.

"The Empire giving the Thalmor leave to loot our ancient relics now; 'that what it's come to?"

The Altmer gave the officer a sharp look. "I am no soldier of the Thalmor, nor am I a thief. We were told you might come here looking the crown; seeking more meagre validation to add to your cause."

"That crown belongs to the High King of Skyrim," the officer barked. "And we know who the rightful High King is." He turned to a blonde soldier, nodding. "Bind him and let's get cracking."

Even if he could get free, Fasendil knew he stood no chance against ten Stormcloaks in such close proximity, so he surrendered to the capture, humiliating as it was, and followed as he was dragged into the tomb. He knew what would happen once they would leave this place – he would be sent to Windhelm, imprisoned, likely tortured, and ultimately, probably killed once he'd given them any inside information he had.

They walked into the main area, the temple of Korvanjund, where some of his men had taken position. He forced himself to watch despite the easy Stormcloak victory, telling himself to remember this in the unlikely situation that he might escape. He stumbled as he was dragged along at an uneven pace he could hardly predict, mostly likely at the amusement of the soldier who held the rope that bound his wrists, and he grit his teeth, wanting nothing more than to run close and smack the back of her head with his fists.

They reached a chamber with a strange door at the end, and Fasendil frowned at the bodies near it – clearly something other than Stormcloaks wanted those soldiers dead.

"Here, hold this for me," he heard his supervisor say, and he realised it was Aralyn he was being handed over to. "I want to check this out."

The female hurried ahead to admire the intricate walls, and Aralyn reluctantly held onto the rope, avoiding Fasendil's gaze.

"Funny meeting you here."

"Don't talk to me," she said under her breath, her expression bitter even as she tried to school it into indifference.

"What I wish to know is what exactly you think you'll achieve by doing this. You think the Nords are going to forget you're not a Nord and accept you as one of their own?"

"Shut up," she hissed at him.

"Because they won't."

"Yeah?" she finally responded, granting him success. "And how has becoming an Imperial been working out for you?"

He was silent at that, and Aralyn started walking, dragging him after her. She dropped the end of the rope into his former captor's hands in a gesture of finality. "I don't want to be near him," she informed brusquely, before she walked away, heading to the doorway.

It was strange, he thought, how this had happened in such a short span of time. Their bond completely severed, their paths becoming a crossroad at which each of them had veered in different directions.

Fasendil watched her as she succeeding in solving the puzzle to open the door where her comrades had failed, and a quiet sense of pride reared up from underneath the resentment that had begun to build toward her. As much as he wanted to claim she was no longer his sister; she would always be, no matter what.

His sister. And his enemy.

* * *

 **ARALYN**

Aralyn stared at the crown that had been placed in her hands, turning it this way and that curiously. It wasn't a particularly beautiful thing, but it definitely was as majestic and spectacular as she'd expected.

"What will this crown mean for Ulfric?" she asked, her question directed at Yrsarald. The others were searching the tomb for treasures, and Leyna was standing not a far distance away with Fasendil in tow, whom Aralyn was trying her hardest to ignore.

"Have you not heard that ancient verse? ' _Maw unleashing razor snow, of dragons from the blue brought down' –"_

" _...'births the walking winter's woe, the High King in his Jagged Crown'_ ," Aralyn finished, nodding. "I remember it. But Ulfric said it himself: a crown does not make a king."

"Aye," he agreed, "that it doesn't. But, way back in King Harald's time – or even before – the High King always wore the Jagged Crown. It was the symbol of his might and power. The crown is made from the bones and the teeth of ancient dragons, and it is said to contain a portion of the power of every king who has worn it. True or not, who would dare deny Ulfric's claim, when the legendary Jagged Crown sits upon his brow?"

"We will have to hope no one would dare," she answered. "If they do... well, it looks fashionable, at the very least."

The officer chuckled in response. "Certainly not one of Ulfric's top priorities." He crossed his arms, glancing over at Fasendil, before back to Aralyn. "Very well, Unblooded; we will keep searching this place for anything else valuable. You take that crown back to Windhelm and tell Ulfric he owes Galmar and I a drink."

Aralyn nodded. "Not a problem."

"And," Yrsarald gave a brief nod in the direction of Leyna and Fasendil, which Aralyn recognised the meaning of before he even said it. "Escort him back there, too. He's a legate, he'll know at least some of whatever Tullius has up his sleeve, and the Jarl will want to know what that is."

She wanted so badly to argue, to explain that she would rather make the crypt her home than escort her brother to Windhelm, but she couldn't. Not without exposing her relation to Fasendil and causing them all to doubt her loyalty again.

"Immediately," she finally replied, relieving Leyna of her duty.

Silence fell upon them, but it lasted only until they were out of the tomb and in open air again, with no one to hear them.

"We best get moving, sister dearest."

"Shut up, Fasendil."

* * *

 **A/N:** Not sure why but I felt sad when I wrote the part about Imperial Soldier #4 and his burned sleeping mat. Let's make it a headcanon that he escaped the attack and received a new sleeping mat upon returning to Solitude.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

 **Summary:** Fasendil convicts Aralyn, Aralyn frees Fasendil. Gaining an audience with the Jarl, the Jagged Crown is presented. "The guy wearing that was pretty unhygienic, I'd wash it first."

 **A/N:** Late update since I'm out of town for a few weeks! I'll be working on _Valley of Ashes_ next, but hopefully my next update here won't take so long as it did this time. Please R &R!

* * *

 **FASENDIL**

"Have you ever even _tried_ to make a fire before?"

Her next pile of wood went onto the existing bunch with a much more forceful throw, taking a deep inhale and looking to be trying to ignore her brother's remarks. " _Yes_."

"Uh huh. And did you fail that time, too?"

They'd been travelling for a good night and day with no more than a quick nap before Aralyn had insisted they move on. Finally, on the second night, they were setting up a proper camp, though Fasendil knew his sister didn't like the idea of sleeping in the woods. Not with how common bandits had become in recent year; not to mention brutal. Surprisingly, Aralyn had made good on her word to hunt their dinner, but she had stopped impressing him after that, when she had shown little to no ability to start a simple fire.

She turned to him, hands on hips and eyes blazing. "Maybe you could try helping, if you're so smart."

Fasendil smiled brightly her as he held up his bound wrists and kicked out his legs, which had also been restricted to short strides by a short length of rope. "Would if I could. Or maybe I wouldn't. I haven't made much of an effort to help traitors in the past, don't know why I should start now."

Aralyn's nose wrinkled in irritation, before she stomped over childishly and pushed him down onto his side with her boot. Fasendil grunted as his shoulder hit the dirt, though amused as he watched her walk off into the woods after more sticks; and then struggled to push himself back into an upright sitting position, his hands rendered useless.

He had forgotten what a pain his sister could be sometimes. Shaking his head, he crawled over to the pile of wood to inspect her handiwork; or lack thereof.

She'd gone off thinking they needed more wood for a fire, but really it was just some dry sticks it needed, not more green branches. With some difficulty, he picked out a good amount of the wood from the pile and flung it aside, only to get screeched at by Aralyn as she rushed back to their camp. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Relax," Fasendil snorted, trying to avoided getting knocked over again by his irate sister.

"You ruined it!"

"Ruined what, your pretty stick-castle?"

"Shut up Fasendil," she spat angrily, trying to replace the sticks he'd thrown aside. "I finally got some smoke going before, a little extra wood and we would've been ready to cook the bloody meat."

"You had too much green wood on there for a fire to ever catch," he retorted, irritated with the younger's habit of always challenging him on anything and everything. "Stop arguing and listen, for once."

Aralyn crossed her arms, clearly opposed to his advice, but she also kept silent – which he thought was a good sign. She usually kept her remarks to herself when she knew he was talking sense.

"What, then?" she finally asked, her voice sounding like it had been the last thing she wanted to say.

Fasendil sighed, mostly out of relief. "Go and get some dry wood so that we may not starve out here."

His sister stared at him for a long moment, as if weighing his advice. She finally gave in with a loud sigh.

There wasn't much he could do, he mused as he watched her figure depart into the distance. He couldn't exactly clean the meat – because of his bindings, but mostly because she had been careful to leave no sharp objects behind that he could use to either escape or skin game. The only things that were left behind were him, the sticks, and that cursed Jagged Crown, and he wasn't about to use the blunt corners of the thing as a skinning tool. He picked off the rest of the useless green branches and sticks from the pile of wood and rearranged those which remained into a steeple so it would burn faster.

A while later and Aralyn returned. Fasendil watched as she carefully added the new wood to his neat arrangement, then as she began to attempt to start a fire again – albeit awkwardly, with the fingers of a person conscious that they were being watched. It made him smile, remembering how she had always sought to impress him, to succeed and excel in his eyes. When had she grown up so fast? When had they become the people they currently were?

How had things changed so drastically, and when?

But almost two full days travelling together had made Fasendil realise that things had never changed; they had simply _been_. As well as they had always got on, they had always been at odd-ends. Fasendil was a logical being, rationality and careful plotting characterising his decisions and actions; whereas Aralyn was quick-witted, impulsive and spontaneous, making swift choices according to her sense of morality.

The one thing they ever truly had in common was their desire to explore, to learn, to experience. And that was exactly what they had done, wasn't it? Fasendil could only wonder if it had been worth it.

Aralyn's hands were all blood by the time she put aside her dagger to tie the furless game up above the fire to cook, and she glanced at him only briefly as she wiped her hands. He had no idea who had taught her to skin an animal, and who hadn't in turn, taught her to build a proper fire. "I always forget you aren't a child, until I actually see you and remember you're grown now."

She almost looked at him, but he saw her stop herself and focus on something else instead, her lips pursed as she picked up her dagger and began to clean it with the now-bloodied cloth. "Hasn't stopped you from treating me like a little girl."

"You're my sister."

"Your sister, not your daughter," Aralyn agreed, meeting his gaze. "Means you can't baby me forever, nor make my decisions for me."

Fasendil frowned. "I have not stood in the way of your decisions."

"Good," she replied sharply. "Then you should also steer clear of me from now on, if we are fated to be enemies."

"I had no idea you would be coming to the tomb."

She glared at him with a look that said she did not trust him. "But you knew the Stormcloaks would be coming, and therefore you must've thought I might be there."

"I considered it. I hoped your inexperience would hinder the possibility." He could see the words pull Aralyn's temper taut, but no explosion. Yet. "But most of all, I'd been initially hoping I would not be sent there to play guard in the first place."

The younger high elf, in the middle of taking down the cooked meat from the spike, practically tore it off instead, staring at him incredulously. "Guard?" she exclaimed. "You can't seriously expect me to believe that shit you tried to feed Yrsarald. You did _not_ come to stop us; you came to take the crown for the Imperials."

"I am a lot of things," Fasendil growled, "but I am not a liar. I was nominated to this mission, and I was not told the full truth. You think I wanted to be here?"

"Who would do that?" Aralyn demanded.

He ran a hand through his receding hair, sighing. "A man of the Rift, big asset to the Empire... he knows you're my sister. He's a bored idiot, he plays games – probably thinks it's comedic irony."

She took in his words with a drawn brow, before mimicking his sigh and passing him a slab of meat. "Man of the Empire, not surprising, but I won't try to sell you on that argument."

"A single man does not represent an entire Empire."

"But a single man _does_ rule it."

She had become wiser, Fasendil thought. But sometimes wisdom could be dangerous.

* * *

 **ARALYN**

The final evening of their travels they did not stop to eat or sleep, much to Fasendil's apparent disapproval. They had only a small amount of ground left to cover, and Aralyn knew they could do it before the night was over. All she wanted to do was get clean, change her clothes, sleep in a bed – and most of all, be free of her brother.

It wasn't that she hated Fasendil or had even hated this trip. And that was exactly the problem.

Being around her brother was precisely what Aralyn needed in order to grow more open toward him again, and she did not want that. Weakness fed on emotions, and if she let herself be compromised by her bond with Fasendil, she risked losing before she'd even begun. No, that wasn't going to happen. Not when her progress as a Stormcloak soldier had finally started to bud.

"You get on with them?"

It was the first word they'd exchanged all day that wasn't about their journey, and Aralyn threw him an equally surprised and confused expression. "Who?"

Fasendil gestured vaguely with his bound hands. "Your new comrades."

"Curious, are you?"

"You certainly seem to be having fun with them," Fasendil noted, though his tone sounded accusing.

A dry smile crossed her lips at that, and she shook her head. "I would hardly call Skyrim's state of affairs _fun_ , but far be it from me to criticise an Imperial."

Fasendil threw his head back slightly in laughter. "You are entirely pretentious," he told her. "It wasn't too long ago that _you_ were on this side too, little sister."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I've come to my senses."

"Oh, is _that_ it." Fasendil's voice was calm, but Aralyn knew better. She could hear the anger bubbling beneath the lid. "You haven't the slightest idea what you're getting into."

"A war. And it's important to choose the right side when you go to war."

"You could've stayed home. You could've not chosen a side at all."

She let out a sharp, sour laugh. "That sounds like it could be a motto for the Empire. _Not choosing a side at all_."

The elder Altmer met her eyes, gold against gold, piercing and molten. They'd both been good at acting, at hiding their true emotions; due to their social standing in the past, it had been necessary to know how to put on a good act in public – but Fasendil had always been a little better at concealing his feelings than Aralyn had. "Sometimes it's best to realise when not to pick a fight," he replied, evenly and smoothly.

"And sometimes you can be so blind that you don't even realise that the fight has been brought to you already."

"If you still don't realise that everything I have done was to protect you, then _you_ are the blind one."

Aralyn hissed angrily, almost lashing out at him, but the sight of Windhelm in the distance calmed her just enough so she could reply with some small measure of steadiness. "I can protect _myself_ , in case you haven't noticed," she informed him. "Focus on yourself."

The forlorn look on her brother's face was confronting, and she tried to avoid it as they walked toward the city. "I don't care about myself – I haven't cared for a long time, and you know that. All of this started because I dreamt of something, but this... this is not the dream. This is a nightmare."

She knew what Fasendil had dreamed of. He wanted excitement, adventure, intrigue. He wanted to travel and see Tamriel in all its vast beauty. He wanted to see for himself all that the two of them had heard from the stories of their parents and read from the tales of their books. To get tangled up in a war? That wasn't what he wanted.

What either of them had ever wanted.

The closer they got to Windhelm, the more she felt excitement and dread mix together in her stomach, bringing on waves of nausea. She glanced down at the crown tied to her belt, biting into her lip. They would praise her for bringing the crown, imprison her brother, and then – divines only knew what they might do to him.

And no matter how she might disagree and even detest him sometimes, he _was_ her brother, and she loved him.

"What are you doing?"

The elder was looking at her expectantly as she grabbed him and forced him to stop walking and face her instead, but she did not reveal nor explain anything as she pulled out her dagger.

"The solution is simple." Aralyn could feel him staring at her dumbfounded as she cut his bindings, but she ignored it, freeing his ankles and wrists before straightening, looking into his wide, lost eyes. "If your dream isn't right, then change your reality."

Fasendil looked just as confused as before. "You're letting me go?"

"You'll have to hurry," she told him. "Your best bet is Kynesgrove, further than the Windhelm stables but probably faster on the getaway. Take a horse and get as far away as you can, avoid the main road lest you meet Yrsarald on the way."

"Aralyn –"

"Just – listen," she interrupted, more and more conflicted by the moment. Windhelm was so close behind her, but at the same time her brother was here right in front of her; with that almost _helpless_ expression on his face. She wanted to help him, but she also wanted to be loyal to the Stormcloaks. What if they ever found out what she had done?

"You're my brother. You should not be my enemy, but you may very well be." Aralyn replaced her dagger and swallowed hard, as if gulping down something sour. "Don't forget what I've done here."

They stared at each other for several seconds, and he looked thoughtful, as if considering something. There was a debate happening in his mind, which unnerved her a little. Fasendil was a _very_ smart man, but in being so he often withheld a lot from her; a lot which she believed that, as his sister, she should know.

Then he finally exhaled, speaking on a rush of breath. Clearly, the information hadn't been something he was supposed to share. "Alright," he said quietly, his words hurried, "I shouldn't tell you this, but – you'll want to know. But no one can know I told you, understand? This is classified information."

Aralyn raised her eyebrows, surprised. They had fought almost the entire way to Windhelm and now he was giving her sensitive information – she wondered if saving someone from imprisonment was equal to being given war secrets. "You're... helping us?"

"Not your rebellion," Fasendil frowned. " _You_."

"Why?"

He exhaled, his head lowering for a moment. He seemed to be thinking of how to properly phrase his answer. "I know that you hate the Thalmor just as much as I do," he murmured, lifting his eyes to meet her gaze. "This will probably aid your cause very little – I hope not at all –" He sighed, and the younger Altmer knew this was a favour he was doing not to repay her letting him go, but because she was his sister. "But you say I have forgotten why I am doing this, and I haven't. I hope you haven't, either."

Aralyn nodded firmly. "I haven't," she confirmed.

Fasendil watched her for a moment, before sighing and stepping closer almost conspiratorially. "It's a party," he said quietly, as if the trees would overhear them. "A gathering of sorts. The First Emissary is the host."

"The blonde one from Helgen?"

"Yes. She's holding it at the Thalmor Embassy in about a week... less, I think. Inviting lots of important people, and it's strictly invitation-only, so no one can get in or out without being checked..." The legate pressed his lips together. "Do what you will with that information, but I thought you should know."

"Thank you..." Feeling as stunned as her brother had appeared before, Aralyn nodded slowly as she looked at him. "Really, thank you."

"Don't thank me. Just watch yourself, and pray the divines might forbid us to ever meet again."

 _Or rather, that they might allow our next meeting to be as kin and not enemies_. "Fasendil," she called as she watched him walk away. "Be... be careful."

"Consider us even," Fasendil called over his shoulder, "little sister."

* * *

 **ULFRIC**

No word had come from Yrsarald yet, nor had any man arrived back from Korvanjund.

Ulfric rested his chin in his palm, fingers digging into his weathered cheek, blue eyes staring at the stone walls of his palace. He needed his men, his third-in-command, and least of all but still important – that crown. In the hall, servants scurried about setting the table for supper, and yet even with all the activity happening, the place felt oddly empty. Every day the war loomed closer, the pressure felt harder. The calm would not last much longer, and a storm would arrive soon. If it were up to him, he would prefer to be the one to bring the storm to his enemies, first.

"Ulfric...?"

He wondered if the troop had run into trouble at Korvanjund. Maybe an ambush. Maybe the crown hadn't been there at all and they were following a new lead? And what of the elven girl – was she proving herself an able Stormcloak?

He almost frowned to himself. There was something about that woman he couldn't pinpoint. Her determination and apparent passion was impressive and indeed, he wanted to trust her. Maybe it was just him, but something was stopping him from believing her entirely. He liked to think it really _was_ something about her, and not his previous encounters with high elves, but he couldn't be sure. Sometimes he thought it was clear her heart wasn't completely devoted to the cause, and other times...

Looking upon her, it was like he saw Elenwen – the gleam in her eyes, the tone of her voice, the arrogance in her posture; the menacing aura that followed her around. He remembered all of it vividly. The agony, the trickery, the torture... the destruction of his very being. The way the woman seemed to be entirely unaffected in the face of another's suffering.

And yet Ulfric knew _that_ was just him. There was nothing about Aralyn's pretty face, golden eyes, gentle voice and poise that was Elenwen... but maybe he didn't want to say that yet just in case she was. He wouldn't be caught and outsmarted _again_.

"Balgruuf is a true Nord," the Jarl finally answered, still somewhat absent-minded. "He'll come around."

"Don't be so sure of that," Galmar muttered glumly. "We've intercepted couriers from Solitude. The Empire's putting a great deal of pressure on Whiterun."

Ulfric frowned at the wall, biting the inside of his cheek. Tullius was certainly making the most of the time they had remaining of this calm. "And what would you have me do?" he asked his general, breaking his stare with the wall to look at Galmar instead.

The housecarl crossed his arms resolutely. "If he's not with us, he's against us."

Ulfric snorted, waving a hand before resting his chin in his palm once more. "He knows that. They all know that."

"How long are you going to wait?"

"You think I need to send Balgruuf a stronger message?"

"If by message you mean shoving a sword through his gullet."

That was so typical of Galmar, and despite the violent nature of the sentence, Ulfric felt his lips quirk upward. "Taking his city and leaving him in disgrace would make a more powerful statement, don't you think?"

"So we're ready to start this war in earnest then?" Galmar asked.

"Soon." Yrsarald still needed to return with his men. And Aralyn. Any siege that would take place would surely need to wait until their forces were in full number again – especially if Whiterun chose to side with the Empire and brought in reinforcements.

"I still say you should take them all out like you did Deadking Torygg."

"Torygg was merely a message to the other Jarls. Whoever we replace them with will need the support of our armies."

"We're ready when you are."

Ulfric took a deep inhale and leaned forward, resting his forearms atop his knees. His head hung, eyes focused on the floor beneath his feet. War seemed as much a distant memory as it seemed to follow him around, ever-present. "Things hinge on Whiterun," he replied. "If we can take the city without bloodshed, all the better. But if not..."

He saw Galmar step closer; heard the certainty in his voice. "The people are behind you."

"Many I fear still need convincing," he sighed.

"Then let them die with their false kings."

"We've been soldiers a long time," the Jarl muttered. "We know the price of freedom. The people are still weighing things in their hearts." And he understood that. He wanted to understand it. But he knew it and Galmar knew it too – time was running.

"What's left of Skyrim to wager?" the housecarl demanded.

"They have families to think of."

"How many of their sons and daughters follow your banner? We are their families."

Ulfric smiled, lifting his head. "Well put, friend." He straightened and stood up from his throne, facing the other man; but he did not move. "Tell me, Galmar, why do you fight for me?"

Galmar looked startled by the question, as if it were the most ridiculous and obvious question in the world. "I'd follow you into the depths of Oblivion," he proclaimed. "You know that."

"Yes," Ulfric insisted, impatient. "But _why_ do you fight? If not for me, what then?"

"I'll die before elves dictate the fates of men." Galmar frowned, mouth tilting. "Are we not one in this?"

"Do you know why I fight?" he asked, hands balling into fists at his sides. "I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I fight for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I fight for we few who did come home, only to find our country full of _strangers_ wearing familiar faces! I fight for my people impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet brands them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I fight so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for nothing." Emotion clouded his mind, blocked his throat, and he swallowed against it; his voice weaker as he continued. "I fight... because I must."

"Your words give voice to what we all feel, Ulfric. And that's why you will be High King. But the day words are enough, will be the day when soldiers like us are no longer needed."

He sighed, rubbing his face roughly. "I would gladly retire from the world, were such a day to dawn." And as he looked away from Galmar, he found that they had been joined by a third-party.

Aralyn. And she looked like she had heard everything.

The general regarded her for a moment, before looking back to the Jarl. "Aye," he agreed in delay, "but in the meantime, we have a war to plan." He turned to Aralyn, who was still looking at Ulfric. "Elf, is that it? Is that the crown?"

Ulfric held her gaze; though he wasn't sure he wanted to make any assumptions about what her expression meant. He hadn't meant to speak for an audience, though if she approved of his words as her face seemed to indicate, he would not mind it.

"The guy wearing that was pretty unhygienic," she finally spoke, and he watched as she untied the object from her belt, where she'd hidden it under her blue sash. "I'd wash it first."

"By the Nine," Galmar chuckled, accepting the crown as she relinquished it. "This warrants a drink, Ulfric."

The chuckle escaped into his voice unbidden. "Damn you, old bear. You were right." Glancing at Aralyn, he raised an eyebrow. "Yrsarald?"

"Should be arriving soon," she replied. "He sent me with the crown, said he'd be heading back with the others after they did a full search of the tomb. Also, he said to remind you of his drink."

Ulfric grinned, sitting back down in his seat. "Fair is fair," he agreed. "Have someone clean that thing up, and then we'll dine indulgently tonight."

Galmar was visibly pleased as he left chuckling with the crown, but Aralyn lingered, looking like she had something more to say. Ulfric frowned. "Something else?"

He watched her, brow still drawn, as she moved closer.

"I liked your speech," she told him with a light curve of her lips. "Thoroughly touching."

He flushed. "Enough insincere flattery, get on with it."

"I am not insincere, I mean it. They were the words of a leader I wish to follow."

It was surprising to hear from her, and even a tad encouraging. Nevertheless, Ulfric cleared his throat and gestured impatiently. "My thanks, then. Now, was that all you wished to tell me, or do you have valid information?"

"There was further news," she affirmed, walking toward the throne until finally stopping at the foot of the dais. "Something that may prove useful to us."

The high elf's face was dirty and her clothes bloodied, leading him to think that whatever she had postponed cleaning up for, it was most likely important. Though, similarly, if it was something urgent, he expected Yrsarald would have made immediately for Windhelm along with her instead of remaining at Korvanjund for loot.

Ulfric laced his fingers, leaning forward with his forearms rested on his knees again. "Go on."

Aralyn cleared her throat. "It is to do with the Thalmor. It appears they plan to hold a party of some sort."

Upon hearing the word _Thalmor_ , Ulfric's fingers clenched around each other, his knuckles whitening. His eyes stared into hers, urging her to continue. "What party, and when."

"I don't know the exact date, but I hear it will be in less than a week. Elenwen is hosting it at the Embassy, and apparently there will be many important guests attending."

 _Elenwen_. He cursed under his breath, letting his gaze find his boots. Their war was with the Empire right now, but it was the Thalmor that had caused the Empire to become the enemy in the first place. A chance to get into the Embassy and obtain any sort of information wasn't something he needed to think over before he took it.

"Ulfric, I –"

"You will address me as Jarl," Ulfric interrupted, head immediately snapping up to address the impudence. Aralyn, in response, looked nothing but a little sheepish, at best.

"Forgive me, my _Jarl_." Dry and a little sarcastic, but planning an infiltration was no time for a lecture on manners. "I would ask that you allow me to be the one to attend the party."

He raised an eyebrow, surprised. "I would doubt your skill in espionage."

Aralyn's lips twisted. "How ironic it is then, that you suspected me of it the moment I first arrived here."

Ulfric leaned forward, challenging her. "I was taught to be wary of beautiful women."

"You think me beautiful, then?"

He chuckled at the grin on her lips and relaxed back into his throne, though he still regarded her with narrowed eyes. She was clever, witty. Dangerous traits indeed. "Of all the maidens I've known, you are the most tricky."

"Oh?" The Altmer crossed her arms, and this time she took the first step onto the dais. "You've known many, have you?"

What was that tinge in her voice? "Does it give you cause for concern?"

Aralyn smiled, pursing her lips. "I've done nothing to give you cause to believe me one of trickery."

"Haven't you?" Ulfric asked with a raised eyebrow. "I have yet to hear where you obtained your information; or why Yrsarald did not come with you, given this important development."

She tossed her ebony hair back and tilted her head, golden eyes shining. "If I tell you, you must agree to let me go to the party."

"You do not negotiate with me, Altmer. Tell me what I've asked, and I will consider your request; nothing more."

Aralyn looked displeased, but nevertheless bit back any retort she seemed ready to give. "I assisted an Imperial nobleman," she said. "Carriage got attacked by bandits. He thanked me, and I offered him safe passage through the woods. He didn't seem too bright. On the way he spoke of a party he was to be attending."

Ulfric raised an eyebrow. "He, an Imperial, trusted a Stormcloak?"

"Like I said, he wasn't very bright. Probably assumed I wore nothing special but a typical guard's uniform."

He still didn't trust her completely, but he was, at the very least, satisfied with the information. Whether or not he would be daring enough to send her on such a mission was yet to be seen.

"Fine." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Go and make yourself presentable for dinner. Jorleif will show you to your bed in the barracks and clean clothes. We will discuss this further tonight."

"Yes, of course," she replied, stepping away with a smile and the tiniest glint of mischief in her eyes. "My _Jarl_."


End file.
